


I Was Always There

by whatsanapocalae



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Chronic Pain, Flashbacks, Gift Giving, Hurt/Comfort, Massage, Night Terrors, No Ship, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stress Baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23196055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsanapocalae/pseuds/whatsanapocalae
Summary: Some short bits of an alternate future of DMC, in which V is back and living with Dante. No real plot but maybe someday.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

He hadn't asked yet. Part of it had to do with the fact that he was busy, Redgrave city was a mess, but he knew that if he knew the truth of it he wouldn't know what to do about it. It wouldn't affect anything. V was just there now, had stumbled into the Devil May Cry wearing a coat of old blood, some stolen sweatpants, and his hair dyed pink. He smelled of the Quilphoth and he was alone and shaking, his tattoos not only gone but with no sign that they'd ever been there. Dante had had to carry the kid to the bath and sit on the toilet to make sure he didn't drown while all that blood sloughed off him, helped him wash his hair until it was all white, chuckled and made light of the situation s that he wasn't screaming. Nero was with Vergil, cleaning up a small infestation of Baphomets in the north side of town, he would have called if Vergil had suddenly burst in two. 

He should have asked then, what the Hell V was doing back, how he was alive, why he'd come to the Devil May Cry of all places. Part of him, his instinctual trigger happy side, wanted to summon Rebellion and slide it through V's long neck while he tried not to fall asleep. This all had to be a trick. V couldn't really be there and, if he was, he wasn't going to bring them anything good. All he'd done the first time around was lie and hide things. There was no reason that he wouldn't the second time. 

He hadn't though. Nero had been the one to scream, once he and Vergil arrived. V was dressed then, in one of Dante's ratty band shirts and the pajama pants that were covered in flaming, anthropomorphized chilis that Dante never wore but thought were hilarious, leaning heavily on Dante's side as he shook with his eyes down on the floor. Nero screamed and then he was crossing the floor in large strides, ignoring how Vergil was drawing the Yamato, as concerned that V was there to trick them as Dante was. Nero hadn't attacked though, not in the usual sense. He had grabbed a hold of V and rushed him against his own chest, wrapping his arms around him. V had clung to him immediately, sobbing, apologizing, completely human, and Nero was crying too, honest with his emotions in a way that Dante and Vergil never had been able to. 

Vergil had asked him how this was possible but Dante just shrugged. Vergil was still uncomfortable around V and spent more and more time away from the Devil May Cry, saying that if V was there than Urizen had to be too and that he would get to the bottom of all this. They were just getting to be brothers again and, now that V was there, it all seemed a lot harder. Dante didn't blame V though, not for any of Vergil's responses. 

Having V around was strange, to say the least. He would talk to himself, sometimes, only to turn and see that who he was expecting to be there wasn't, and he'd get this strong sadness in his eyes, making his lip quiver, but he'd turn so his hair covered his expression if Dante came into view. He would put his hand out, as if on a railing on a staircase, when nothing was there, and then he'd clench his fist so tightly his knuckles would turn white. He spoke at length about nothing at all, just flowery prose that seemed to intertwine with what was happening but adding nothing to it, or he'd go days without speaking at all. He was strong some days, able to go down the stairs without assistance, and bed ridden the next, his pain so powerful that Dante could taste it. Those were days in which he'd bring food up to V's makeshift room, which was a futon, a few bookshelves that only held a couple books so far, a lamp, and a small dresser. V wouldn't talk to him those days, just sit and sulk, and Dante would call Nero to come over in the evening for beers, not that Nero had more than one, far more interested in V's condition that nephew-uncle bonding. 

V hadn't asked to stay at the Devil May Cry and Dante hadn't asked him if he wanted to. The first night was because he was too tired to go anywhere else and then it was just excuses after that, one thing after another. They worked well together though, V staying out of his way when he needed to and helping out when he could. He wasn't a neat freak but he did have a nose on him and the smell of old pizza was bad enough that it was almost enough to make him leave immediately. So things were cleaner, the whole place was more hospitable, and it as also more full. Nero and Nico were more willing to visit, Vergil would come by at least once a week to try to make sense of V, and both Lady and Trish came in to get more jobs from the shop because, somehow, they were getting more work now that V was there. 

That didn't mean that living with V was always good and, as quiet and mysterious as he was, Dante found the shop a lot louder because of him. The kid could hold a sorrow deep inside of him and let it stretch, filling the upper rooms with a cold darkness that seeped into Dante's bones like a shadow that taunted him, trying to get him to fall into it, smelling of carbon and baking as that was how V tended to deal with it, not with words but with his hands, late in the night. He had pain in the mornings and sometimes well into the afternoon and they were the cracking embers deep inside of wood, making Dante feel like stepping through the shop would get his foot stuck from the crumbling floorboards, smelling like ozone and almost spent lightning. No one else could feel them, knew that these were expressions, but 

Dante could be buried in them at times and that sorrow was so familiar, he'd felt it at times in Temen-ni-gru and could follow it to find Vergil at the very precipice, even though it had smelled like iron and ice instead of flour and cocoa powder. Vergil's pain had never felt like V's, was always a quick inferno to be quickly doused, but it did smell the same, though the lightning struck and burned as much as the flames had. 

Dante should have talked to him about it. Either V or Vergil, he should have spoken. They were Spardas though, in their own strange ways, and Spardas didn't deal with things with conversations. 

Dante should have asked so many questions. 

\---

Black ooze covering him, seeping into him, sliding over his bones and nestling within him, making him strong, creating padding between his cold broken skin and the armor that had been welded around him. He stood there and watched, from a point that meant authority, as Dante destroyed his brethren. 

The great red and black eagle, filled with electricity and majesty, falling to the earth, his wings shuddering. Those long feathers, once so proud, were clipped and burning. He spoke, his three pronged mouth curling around the words that he, at the precipice, could not hear. Still he spoke and his words made the world rumble, even as Dante slid his sword into the massive breast, freeing the large eye that had become his heart. 

The quick and distorting panther, all spikes and spittle and claws, had nothing but rage and determination and horrible loyalty. She crackling into shape and lost it, trying to avoid the slashing, the quick bullets that Dante fired but she too fell. When she twitched in her death throes there were no words, no movement done to warn or beg for life. Dante would not have heard them anyway, as he split her open from the belly forward, turning her broken ribs into new spikes, freeing the second red eye. 

The chaotic and angry mass of constantly changing, constantly spewing thing was a nightmare just to try to understand, but still it obeyed their shared master. Its body was small, just an orb of crazed and sporadic urge, wrapped in a body of bone that did nothing to protect it. It fought valiantly, tried to distract Dante with portals and lasers and fire, but the monster that was both devil and man was not to be brushed aside. Dante used his hands to crack through the bone and the orb spun, leaving the shattered shell, opposite the others, the pupil was white surrounded by red. 

The three eyes took the place of the stars and as they looked down on him they saw everything, saw his weakness, saw his powerlessness, saw the cracks in the armor from Dante's fists and blade and words. They saw the wounds of their own design, the ones that had made his heart vulnerable and his mind pliant. They saw the desire within the shriveled muscle, the need for power pulsing through his veins. 

The eyes were what whispered and were heard. "Failure after failure and all that's left is you, my general. You will not fail me, will you? Snuff out Sparda's light and the power you so dream of will be yours, no more petty humanity to sour your motivation and strength." 

But there was no fight, no chance for him to fight against Dante, to prove his worth. He looked from the eyes, from his master, and Dante was upon him, sword extended, blood on his teeth and murder in his eyes. 

\---

Dante woke with a start, eyes suddenly wide from a sound of fear somewhere in his home. He was covered in sweat, his eyes searching the room to see what could have given him such a dream. There was nothing there, nothing in his room at least, and he groaned as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He had no need for sleep and he hadn't done it in Hell, but the issue was that he liked sleeping more often than not. Dreams were rare, nightmares even more so. This one though, he'd never had one like it. Never had he dreamed that he was someone else, watching his own body as if he were the villain of the story, as if he stalked and preyed upon demons that were just doing as they were bid. He understood the dream, remembered living it though the order was mangled and the position was strange and there were things that hadn't happened, but he still recognized it. He recognized those eyes, Mundus, and the Knight, Nelo Angelo, though he didn't know why he would dream of being Nelo Angelo. He had never understood the demonic stooge so intimately, hadn't realized that the body was a damaged and cracked shell housing such a needy and broken soul, such a hurt and possessed heart. 

He could still feel that sensation, the black ink, the crude cruddy oil, sinking into his skin, wrapping around him. It smelled like tar and it made the air feel stale in his lungs. It was a viscous and terrible nightmare, both while he slept and while he was awake. 

He didn't feel his own emotions, not like this. He felt them sing in his bones, felt them hammer in his fingers and in his mind, prick at his eyes and the corners of his lips. These was someone else's feelings and they were horrible sickly things, dragging him down to his feet and down the hall. 

A whimper - what had woken him? - came from the only other inhabited room. It sounded fearful and pained and high, as if being hidden within a throat that didn't ant to be bared to the world, hiding all vulnerabilities. 

Dante had nightmares as a child. They were about what would happen if they were found by the demons that hated their father so and about Vergil getting hurt because of him and about getting lost in a big city with a hundred women who looked enough like his mother to raise his hopes. Vergil had always come into his room on those nights, would climb into his bed and wrap his arms around him, hold him close and promise that he wouldn't let anything in, that nothing would hurt Dante or their family. He would be strong and powerful and he would keep them all safe. 

Dante never asked Vergil to do that. It hadn't been until Patty that he realized that he was transmitting his nightmares. Maybe not the contents of them but the feeling of them. It was one of the reasons why she'd been so willing to get out of there, so quickly. It was why Lady and Trish didn't stay at the Devil May Cry unless they had to, even though they had their own rooms. 

Dante wasn't alone now though. There was someone else living under his roof. From the rest of the world, Dante was a large brick wall that nothing could get to V through, but there was nothing to keep V safe from Dante physically or mentally. Dante had intended to hurt him once, when he found out that V had been leading them to Urizen so that he could wrap himself up inside the demon king's body, but not since he'd returned. He didn't even know if V had known that he would recombine with Urizen to become Vergil once more or even what his plan was. 

He should have asked. 

He knocked on the door, moth wing light, before opening it to a room he owned in his own home. Even though it was now a space for V it didn't look lived in. The bookshelves didn't match, were just from random garage sales and second hand stores. The books on them were mostly from the library down the street, the ones that V owned looking mostly untouched. There was still plastic on the lamp, as he'd never fully unwrapped it. He only had one blanket on the futon and he shivered beneath it, curled in on himself, the generic wooden cane from the pharmacy, a shoddy replacement, clutched tightly to his chest. He looked like he was just staying a few days, even after a few months. 

He bit at his lip and pulled in on himself further. The dream had left Dante upon waking but, somehow, V was still trapped in it. He was whimpering under his breath and sweating, whispering so quietly that a human wouldn't be able to hear from the doorway like Dante could. 

"No, no, no, Mundus."

Dante reached out at the name, put his hand on V's bare shoulder, from where the Devil's of Mayhem shirt had slipped, waking him. V's eyelashes rose open like bird wings, all at once, and he was staring up at Dante, no, scrambling to get away from Dante, getting to the food of the bed, blanket sliding to the floor, wrapping his arms around his legs. 

He was shaking, terrified, the dream so real, too real, and Dante wasn't good at this, he didn't talk about feelings. He gave a witty one liner and kicked demon butt, nothing more. But there was this boy, his nephew by all reason, in his home who was so frightened that he couldn't blink, pupils blown for the darkness and the need to see any threat. 

"What, you think that's bad? You should of been there," Dante smirked. 

He reached out again, this time to place his hand on V's knee. He didn't touch it though, not before V had flinched so hard he almost left an afterimage, swinging and hitting Dante's knuckles with his cane. 

"Hey, hey, hey!" Dante yelped, shaking his hand to get the pain out of it. "Can't you wait until the sun's up before you start swinging?" 

But V didn't answer. He didn't answer and he didn't stop staring, didn't stop shaking. He looked so small, so human, so fragile, just sitting there with his cane and his fear. His eyes teared up before he finally blinked, not wanting to take his attention away. 

And that inky black ooze was still there, heavier here, in V's room. 

It wasn't Dante's fear that was in V's bones. It was V's fear that was sinking into Dante's skin. What was worse, it wasn't a fear of the dream, not of Mundus. Dante raised his hand, not towards V but up to his hair, to wipe it away from his face. A nonthreatening move, done to see V's reaction. Another heavy flinch and that solidified it. 

V was afraid of Dante. 

"It was just a dream," Dante pressed, lowering his voice, speaking in hushed tones, trying to sound like a person instead of a riled up adrenaline junkie. "It was my dream but sometimes they spread. I think you might be more susceptible to them because of, well, y'know."

V relaxed, incrementally at the way Dante was talking, at how little he was moving. He didn't need to know that Dante was being as still as possible on purpose. 

"I'm not going to hu-

"What happened on Mallet Island?" V interrupted, voice hoarse and dry, not its usual deep wave. 

It was Dante's turn to stare and V looked away, looked at his cane, practiced breathing. Nowhere in the dream had the name of the location come up. 

"A lot of things," Dante sighed, not asking, again. "I went there on a job, Trish hired me but that was back before I knew who she was. It was all a trap to get me to Mundus but I kicked his behind right back to Hell, same with his generals or whatever." 

"Well, that explains that then," V deflated, shoulders slumping, eyes going to the edge of the bed, Dante's folded leg. 

"Explains what?" Dante cocked his head, "Thought we were getting through the riddles here, kid." 

"You left me behind. After all that time, I thought you were finally taking me home."

Dante looked him over. His lower lip was shuddering and his eyes were watering for a reason other than keeping them open too long. There were dark circles under them and no expression on his face. He was being careful to hide his emotions, again, or he had the apathy that came from exhaustion. From the sticky black tar smell though, Dante was certain that V was just hiding it. He wouldn't press, not unless he had to. 

"You were there?" 

V licked his lips and finally released the cane with one hand to wipe at his eyes. "No. No, of course not. I wasn't even born yet. Dante. If I were to," a pause, "speak candidly, would you wish me harm? Or would you cause me harm?" 

"Well, I guess that would depend on what you say. Candidly," Dante nodded. "But you're not making any sense right now." 

"I- Vergil, he was. Well, I suppose it was just, his punishment for betraying you upon the theft of your mother's pendant. He took it with him, down to Hell, and there he did find Mundus. He had such a desire then, son surpassing father, as I'm sure you are aware."

Dante stared at his palm. There was no cut there, where Vergil had once sliced through when Dante had reached for him, leaving him behind in the crumbling remains of Temen-ni-gru. 

"He is not Sparda and he did not have the power that he so desperately craved. Upon beating him Mundus claimed him and he was offered power in exchange for loyalty. Loyalty that was tested through pain for so many years. You were tricked, brought to Mundus, and Vergil watched, remembered, hoped, but was unable to ask for aid. He would not have in so many words, he is much too proud for that, but he could not escape on his own."

Dante reached out, too fast, fast enough to make V jump and pull his cane tighter to himself, but he relaxed when he knew that it was not a strike, that Dante was not the enemy that had tried to cut him down, would not have been if he had known all of this. Dante's heart was racing, his devil wanting to leave, to find Mallet Island and any proof of this. But he had the proof, right here. He had no reason not to trust V, not in this incarnation. 

"You remember all of that?" his voice sounded quiet, all of a sudden, and he'd never been a quiet man. Perhaps, as a boy, he'd had the nuance for it, but he had lost it to a love of battle and a quicker wit than intelligence. 

When he put his hand on top of V's, it was like settling a cage on the bones of a bird. He was so soft, so delicate, he should never have allowed V to climb the Quilphoth with them, though he would not have survived regardless. 

"I believe that may have been where I was born, in a strange way. Vergil worked to put aside all of his weaknesses, was forced to, his humanity, his regrets, everything pesky and wrong with him. He piled it into a ball and shoved it into the darkness, slid it against pain and disappointment, buried it with trauma. So I was there and I was not, I was Vergil and I was V and I was Nelo Angelo and your sword hurt so terribly when it cut me."

V did not fight him, not now. Now he allowed Dante to move, to pull him close, to wrap his warm arms around V's too cold too thin body. He held him so tightly that he could hear the ribs groan but V didn't complain, he never complained, and when was the last time Dante had hugged someone like this? He couldn't remember and he buried his nose in V's hair, feeling him be real and present and there, so much more than Vergil had been. He'd lost Virgil when they were seven years old and he'd never really gotten him back. If he had known, all those years ago, who he'd been fighting, who had been wanting him but unable to voice it. Nelo Angelo had said nothing in any of their fights on that island and Dante had never thought to think of why. He must not have been able to, for one reason or another. 

"If Vergil finds out I told you all this, he's going to undo me," V whispered, voice muffled by Dante's shoulder. 

"He's never been able to beat me," Dante lied, "not even as kids. He won't touch a hair on you."

V squeezed and it must have been a tight squeeze because it almost felt like something to Dante's tough hide. It felt good though, like something that he needed more of. He didn't let people get close enough to 'touch the merchandise' and now V was all up in his space. No way did he want to let go of that anytime soon. 

"You're not all that, you know," Dante said and he could feel V shift. He was opening his big mouth again, probably saying too much. It was what he was good at. "Just things he tossed away, not just his weakness or his wrongness or whatever else he was ashamed of. Sure, he gave you his humanity but he also made you human. And devils well, we're tougher than you can imagine, or well, I guess you can, but devils need their humanity. It's where we get our strength." 

Dante pulled away, out of the hug, and he pressed his hand directly on V's heart, feeling it pound against the confines of his ribs, barely contained in that paper skin. "You've got, right here, more than a devil could ever dream. And, speaking of dreams, we should get back to that."

A small smile finally graced V's lips as he shook his head, freeing it of the tears gathered in his long lashes and the hair that tried to blind him. "I'm sorry that I stirred you with mine." 

Of course. Of course that was V's dream, Vergil's memories. Dante had never thought it possible, that Vergil could transmit dreams as readily as Dante could. He never had when they were kids. He was always too tough for that. 

"Next time, you just wake me like-no, you try to wake me up I'll stab you on instinct. Just, don't worry about it kid." 

"Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep," V recited as if it was a common phrase that Dante would recognize. 

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say Mr. Frost," Dante mused as he slid off the bed. There was no more tar, no more oily feeling to his skin or his bones. 

"It's Blake," V corrected, sliding back up the bed and under his single blanket.

"Of course it is." Dante ventured off, tossing a loose peace sign over his shoulder as he left the room. 

He did not close the door after him as he heard V settle down for sleep once more. He left it just a crack open so that when he pulled the softest, blanket, the soft golden one with little bats on it, off Trish's bed and then sneak back to V's room, he wouldn't wake him with the doorknob. V was already asleep and the only response he had to the new blanket was to melt into a more comfortable position with its warmth. 

Dante watched him for a moment. He couldn't be there, not for Vergil all those years and not now with his pride the way it was. But he could be there for V.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chronic pain and a gift.

"Hey, you wanna come over for beers? Some good ol' uncle nephew bonding?" That was what Dante said over the phone. It was code, Nero knew that, but he knew that Dante could never say what it actually meant. 'There's an extremely human problem here and I can't do anything about it, please help'. Considering it was now five months that V had been living with Dante, he'd expected these calls to be a little bit less frequent, but they still came at least once a week. Sometimes Nero even got a beer out of it. Sometimes he got some cake and the cake was good but always made him feel hollow and broken inside, even though he never knew why. 

So, of course, he'd said yes, but this time there was an ulterior motive to it. Nico drove him through the still clogged up streets, the roads still have ruin, trying to be at least a little bit more careful. His hand was clinging to the handle coming from the ceiling for her hazardous turns but now people were starting to come back to Redgrave and she had to be careful not to ram the van through whoever got in her way. His other hand held onto the long narrow box that rested in his lap, white box, wrapped in white paper, doodled over with sharpies, words and wishes and dirty little drawings. Nico had gone nuts all over it. 

"Six months," Nico grimaced as she had to slow down the van for a few pedestrians. She didn't come to a stop, that would have been too much. "I haven't seen the skinny little twink in six months! Here I go, driving you to and from, and I didn't even get to see him? That's bull man." 

She sucked through her cigarette. Her eyes were a little wild, a need for adrenaline that she wasn't going to get altering her mood. 

"Yeah, well, it's not like I was keeping him from you," Nero pointed out. "Business is booming. Yeah, the Quilphoth is gone but these little portals everywhere? The clean up? The witches that have moved in? It's a mess." 

Nico glanced back at all the half finished devil arms, guns, and swords that were just strewn on the table back there. She'd duct taped some cardboard to the sides to keep everything inside, but there was no way that was working. "I guess. That little stunt got us a shit ton of notoriety. Got all sorts of toys I'm playing with. Not the same though, is it? Don't have some chicken dinner squawking over my work, don't get to see em rip off some ugly demon face, none of that. I just do em and ship em. No chance to even see if their strong enough to take a scale off something nasty." 

She glanced over at the box in Nero's lap and spoke a bit more softly, a bit more nervously. She got like that, sometimes, not when it was a devil arm for Nero that she knew would be useful but when it was a gift and there was no danger for it to be spent on. "You think he'll like it?" 

Nero stroked the box, hand running over something that was what, a cat? A penis? A pair of boobs? He wasn't sure. "He will. Just the fact that you thought about him would make him happy." 

She pulled up and over the curb, parking haphazardly. No one died. There wasn't even the threat for it. It was strange just how quickly chaos had gotten become their normal. She finished her cigarette and wiped off the ash on the outside of the door before flicking the butt over at some stuffy white guy who was just trying to make his way down the street. 

Nero followed her out, box slung over his shoulders. She brought up one foot and kicked the door open, "Hey Mothers and Fuckers of the jury! The fun squad's in!" 

The sobbing woman at the desk, stopped, turning, and staring at Nico, her eyeliner leaving black inky trails down her cheeks. Dante laughed and swung his legs down and off the table, placing an elbow on it instead. "And here you have our mobile unit. Nero would be the one taking care of your little situation. Nico just drives."

"Drives you crazy more like," Nero rolled his eyes, drawing a bit closer to the stranger. "Sorry about that. We'll clean up your mess for ya, no problem." 

This was awkward. Sure, they dealt with their fair share of grieving mothers and widows and sometimes they didn't know that was what they were yet, trying to get someone to do a little exorcism or something and not realizing that there's nothing left of their loved ones in there. Having a wildcard like Nico made it all the worse. Or better. He wasn't sure yet. 

"Where's the three Musketeers?" Nico continued to ignore the client and stomp around the lobby, looking behind the couch that was already shoved pretty tightly against the wall and up at the wall fixtures. 

"V's upstairs," Dante pointed with his thumb. "Sleeping Beauty hasn't come down yet. Give him a few knocks before entering. Coming in when he's not expecting it.... it's not pretty."

Nico all but sprinted up the steps, giving Nero just a moment to give an apology to their client and rushing up after her. By the time he arrived though she was pounding on the door, no sign of letting up until the door was open. 

"Here, chicky chicky!" she called out, "Been too long since I threatened ya! Got my pot all nice and ready!" 

Nero put a hand on her shoulder and that, finally, got her to stop beating on the door. She turned to him, expectant. "He's gone," Nero said. "I forgot to tell you earlier, but Griffon is gone. So are the others. It's just V." 

She stared at him, taking a step back, away from him and the door. "Well, shit. That changes some things, don't it?" 

And then Nero could feel it. With Nico yelling and the woman downstairs he had been too distracted. The house felt like a ghost town, felt like the boards underfoot were too weak to support him, the air was a bit too cold, there was the smell of baking in the air and it smelled so good, but it still felt wrong. Like freshly made cookies at a funeral. 

There was a quiet sound from inside the room, a gentle but deep voice, trying to make itself heard. "Door's unlocked." 

Nero put up a finger, warning Nico to keep quiet, when he opened the door. 

The room was still and stiff and stale. It was a bit more lived in than the last time that Nero was there, but it was still quite depressing. One of the bookshelves was full, but all of the books on it looked academic. There was a desk shoved against a wall with a cheap, rickety chair pulled into it, but there wasn't a flurry of notes and pens on it. There was a single notebook and a pen next to it, a lamp in the corner of it. There were a bunch of half drank glasses of water and a few bottles on the nightstand, burying the lam that Nero had bought. There were more blankets, at least three of them, and a lump underneath them. Fallen on the floor beside it was the plain brown cane. 

Nero made his way over to the bed, kneeling down next to it and setting the package next to the cane. V was in there, cocooned in blankets, just his face visible, as well as long strands of white hair, stuck to is face. He was watching Nero with quiet cold eyes, his lip was bitten puffy and pink and one of the cracks was now a split. 

"You okay in there?" Nero asked, wanting to reach in. 

"Just." V breathed like he'd been holding it in. "A bit of pain, really. It is nothing to concern yourself with." 

Nero put his hand on V's head, petting over the blankets. He'd seen worse, had been called over to help Dante when he didn't know what to do, to find V curled up on the floor next to the bed, sobbing from the grief of losing all his familiars, books on magic thrown against the wall when he knew he couldn't couldn't get them to come back. He'd been there when V's muscles spasmed and seized, so much pain coming from his leg and going up his spine. He at least knew what to do with that one. 

"Are you dressed?" Nero asked. 

V nodded from within his cocoon. 

He let the human arm fade away and he started to charge his devil arm, letting his other continue to stroke V's head and shoulder. When the arm started to steam he turned it off and his skin, where it met could handle the heat so he just had to hope that V's could too. 

"Can I see your leg?" 

V murmured, under his breath, looking away from Nero. He didn't like to ask for help, he never had. Even when his body was crumbling, he didn't want help getting him up from the ground. Nero had to practically carry him at the end and V had kept his face hidden behind his hair the entire time, hadn't mentioned it, and his body then must have been agony to inhabit. 

He did not leave his cocoon, just reached down and moved the blanket from his leg. His pajama bottoms were black with little pizza men on them which all had microphones and musical instruments. He didn't even have his own pajamas. 

Nero scooted down the bed, lifting the leg and setting it in his lap. V shuddered at the contact. Nero didn't know if that was a pain response or not, he always shuddered when Nero touched him. Perhaps it was because Nero was the only one who had permission to touch him and he was starved for it, not that he'd ever say anything. 

"Nico's here." He hiked up V's pant leg. There was no visible damage, no scars or knots, nothing that showed that the bones was at the wrong angle or anything. 

"I know." 

"Can I come in or not?" Nico called out from the hall. 

"You may enter," V said, a little bit louder, a little bit stronger. He pulled the blanket away from his head, running his fingers through his hair and trying to get it to its usual bounciness. 

His attention was drawn to Nero though as she entered, hissing as Nero put the hot devil arm on his skin. It wasn't a pained hiss though and, when Nero started to run his fingers against the skin, pressing into the muscles, the knots in them starting to melt. 

"Well, don't you look like a turd in a hot dog bun," Nico laughed as she sat on the futon, over by V's head. 

"And here you are, oh wondrous angel, giving vision to the weak and ailing that all could be made right," he recited. 

"That's not Blake," she sneered, scooted over enough that she could take him by the shoulder and lay his head in her lap. "You're not starting to broaden your horizons, are you?" 

He shook his head and then straightened out, body going stiff as Nero dug his thumb into his calf. "Perhaps I have made the mistake of writing my own verses." 

"Shit, that drivel was yours?" 

He nodded. 

"Well, I ain't no angel, but I'll take it." 

He hummed rubbing his forehead against his her stomach. Nero kept rubbing and drawing out little murmurs of pain and pleasure from V as he worked, slowly riding up from his calf up to his thigh. The damage was all lower, from what he could gather, but the rest of his leg, the rest of his body, would tense and make a mess of itself in response to it. 

They chatted for a while, nothing important, Nico exaggerating a story for V about a hunt they'd been on recently, while Nero worked. He charged up his devil arm again before reaching V's hip and then they had to get rid of the blankets entirely so that Nero could get to his back, shoving up the Masters of Hell band tee to get to his ribs. After all this, after living with Dante and his eating habits, V was still far too skinny. 

"Feeling a bit better?" Nero asked when he was done, letting his hand reform over the devil arm. 

"Feeling more human, yes." V smiled, pulling himself up and into a sitting position between them. He was careful not to touch either one of them. "Thank you."

"Don't thank us yet!" Nico exclaimed, reaching down and scooping up the box, dropping it heavily in V's lap. "This is the main event! C'mon, I've been trying not to just open it for you since we got here." 

He looked the box over, "Is there some event I've forgotten?" 

"Nah, and I know it ain't your Birthday but sometimes people just give people things! It's not that deep."

He found the taped down edge and popped it, fingers underneath the paper so that he wouldn't rip it. 

"You are displaying way too much patience poet boy," Nico complained. 

He glanced over at her from under his lashes. "And you spent far too much time on decorating this. I need something for my walls." 

She didn't complain again. The paper came free without a crease or tear and he handed it over to Nero. Then there was the box. He looked nervous, licking his lip slightly before putting his hand on either side of it. What was inside wasn't a surprise, the size and shape of the box should have made it obvious, but when he lifted the lid he cooed in a way that made it clear that he hadn't been expecting there to be a new cane within. 

The handle of it was smooth, aside from a femur like protrusion on either side and it curved down into thick vertibre. Then there was the shaft, which looked like a bunch of roots coming from the bones, wrapping around and growing through one another. V ran a hand down it, eyes wide and wet. 

"She's beautiful."

"Ain't she?" Nico asked, hopping up and off the bed, all but dancing in V's room. "Come on, give her a whirl."

V set the tip down on the floor and used it to help pull himself up off the bed. He didn't look like his old self, even as bent as he was, as tired as he was, walking around the room with it. The length was just about perfect and it handled his weight without complaint. 

"Her name is Achlys," Nero added. "You would have liked her. Other than the fact that she wouldn't stop eating people." 

He tossed the cane up to catch it in the center of the shaft. "A devil arm. That's no surprise." 

He flicked it the shaft extended, tripling in length. He swung it a few times, careful not to hit anything, and a thick mist followed in its path, making it harder to see. When he slammed the tip of it down a long spectral blade grew from the handle, making it a pale white scythe. The blade went through the walls easily but Nero knew that it would slice a demon quickly in twain. 

"She handles like a charm," V stated, setting it back into its primary form. "Now I feel worse for not having something in return." 

"Chocolate!" Nico demanded. "I smelled it when we came in. Nero told me you'd started baking. Can't see any of it on you though." 

V chuckled. "You are free to all I've made though I must warn you. I have been told that it is lacking." 

That was a lie. Nero had told him that it tasted like all the sugar was replaced with salt and the salt had been replaced with dirt. Dante wouldn't even touch it, other than to clean up the mess every once in a while. The issue was that it smelled good and it looked amazing, so it was very seductive. Nero didn't want any, he always said that, but then he always got some anyway and regretted it. 

They left that little room and made it down the stairs without consequence. Dante was reading one of his gun magazines. There were no clients to be seen. He gave them a wave as they came down. 

"Clients got an issue with the cemetery near her home, said there's a wraith in there trying to kill anyone who tries to visit and she's got a dead husband to bury. Said you'd have it taken care of by Friday." 

"Yeah," Nero shrugged, "Whatever. That's nothing for the three of us." 

V raised an eyebrow. There was no pretending that he wasn't meant to be their third. Nero wrapped an arm around V's shoulders and pulled him close, shoulder to chest, making him laugh. It was a good sound, far too rare. They made it into the kitchen though and V pulled out his most recent monstrosity. It was a simple mousse and he handed it over to Nico with only the slight concern that she'd knock to the floor with how she was clapping and spinning in excitement for it. 

She grabbed a spoon on her own and Nero could feel how V's hand twisted the back of his jacket, watching her take the first bite, no hesitation. He was worried. He had every right to be. 

But she didn't spit it out. She didn't even make a face. No, she did, but it was that eye rolling of bliss, knees bending to get through something amazing, and it was paired with an absolutely abhorrent moan. 

"Oh my god, V. Please tell me you're leaving this place and becoming a real chef because I would die for this. I feel like I may have already." She took another bite. She wasn't lying. 

Nero was staring at her. V was too. "I think you'd be my only customer if I did that."

"No, no," she set it down and, spook still in hand, came up to V with hands extended. She grabbed him by the face, palms on his cheeks and fingers over his ears,"No, this is amazing. I am so in love with you right now." She pulled him forward and planted a big kiss on his forehead. "But not really. You got all that machismo around you. Not into that." 

She went back to her food, digging into it wholeheartedly. Nero and V continued to stare at her. Nero knew that she was weird, but she had to have taste buds, right?"

"Perhaps," V muttered, "It isn't my baking that's the issue." 

Nero turned to look at him.

"Dante can feel my emotions, because they feel like Vergil's. I fear that my emotions may have soiled my attempts at this craft. You may have tasted my," he paused then, not wanting to let the truth seep out, "sorrow, in what I created." 

Nero patted him on the far shoulder and, almost, pressed a kiss to his temple, but he stopped himself before getting that close. "Well, seemed like, after this job, we're going to have to figure out what happy baking tastes like." 

There was no missing the quirk to V's lips, a genuine smile hidden as much as the rest of his expressions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headcanon that Nico kisses her friends in a strictly platonic way and Nero has started to do the same. In this house we stan platonic kisses!

**Author's Note:**

> I actually know how V came back for this alternate continuation and I may share that if you guys want! Leave comments and maybe ideas for other chapters? I'm hoping I can change the order of chapters later but, if not, I'll just make it a series instead.


End file.
